Death Is Only A Word
by myhorserockyrocks
Summary: Explore Dennis Creevey's mind after the fateful night that stole his brother from him. Experience his grief, as raw as it was in those next couple of days. Written for alohamora080's "True Colors" Competition.


**A/N: Hi all! This is for alohamora080's "True Colors" Competition! I'm really excited to write this, so hopefully you guys enjoy reading it!**

**Disclaimer: All goes to JK Rowling. I own nothing. Colin Issac Creevey (Dennis's son) goes to alohamora080.**

**May 10, 1998**

The sand covering the banks of the Black Lake was really started to get on Dennis Creevey's nerves. It had been in his sandals since the moment he had reached the bank. Now, it was creeping into his clothes while he sat at the forever long funeral held on the Hogwarts grounds. It was exhausting for Dennis, keeping up this act that nothing could sway him. But that wasn't true. His elder brother, Colin, had just died, and yet nobody understood.

Nobody understood what he was going through. Nobody understood what it was like. Nobody understood the grief that constantly flowed through his body. Nobody understood how losing a brother would make you want to move on forever, departing this life for good. Nobody except a certain George Weasley.

It was after the ceremony, after the burial, after the tears, that an equally heart-broken George Weasley joined Dennis in sitting on the steps of the castle, staring out into oblivion. Finally, the elder boy spoke up. "How are you handling things, Dennis?" His voice sounded rough, unused. Dennis wondered if he had done anything except cry since that fateful evening when they had lost their brothers.

Dennis gave a bark of unexpected laughter, but it wasn't the warm laughter that he'd shared with Colin before they had parted ways just eight short days earlier. It was cold, humorless. And he hated himself for it. Finally, Dennis broke down. One tear fell down his face before he realized what was happening and he impatiently brushed it away with the back of his hand before preventing the rest to spill. And suddenly, Dennis was struck with how much he needed someone to confide in. Someone like George. "I just… I just want things to go back to the way that they were… before," he whispered, ashamed at how childish he sounded. Dennis was fourteen years old, he should be able to pull himself together. Only he wasn't.

George turned to stare at him, incredulous. Suddenly, and with no warning at all, his expression hardened into one of fury. "But that's just it, isn't it?" he yelled, his hands digging into his fiery red hair. "Things will never be the same as they were before! They'll never come back," he added, quieter now. "And we just have to deal with it."

Dennis was shocked. Never before had he seen George so agitated. But then again, never before had they both been so lost. "Which is why," Dennis began, sounding uncharacteristically serious, "I'm moving to France." Dennis shut his mouth quickly, shocked. He didn't know when he had decided that, it had just happened. And now was the first time that he was admitting it. George looked at him suddenly, his bright blue eyes wide with excitement. "Er, yeah, so, I guess I'm going." Dennis shrugged, trying to make out that it was no big deal, when inside his mind was a field of panic.

George sighed wistfully. "I wish I was like you. Young, innocent, and carefree. Actually doing something about my pain. You'll go for both of us, won't you, Dennis?" he asked, sounding about as vulnerable as a five-year-old. Dennis nodded quickly, his blonde locks hanging for the first time in front of his face. "Say goodbye to him, Dennis. You can't leave without saying goodbye." Dennis nodded once more, tears beginning to prick at the corners of his eyes again. And abruptly, Dennis stood up and excused himself from George's company.

**May 11, 1998**

Dennis stood next to the pearly white headstone, tears creating tracks down his dirty face. The dates inscribed on the headstone, _May 4, 1981- May 2, 1998, _seemed to haunt him. The name, _Colin Absolon Creevey, _sent jolts of adrenaline throughout his body. And he was trying to say goodbye.

It was simply impossible, harder than Dennis had anticipated it to be. For he knew that once he left, he wouldn't see his brother again, not until the afterlife. And that sickened him. How could he do it? How selfish was he really being? Deep down, Dennis knew that Colin wouldn't have deserted him, wouldn't have been this selfish. And Dennis was quickly ashamed of what he had been about to do. He lost all momentum that he had possessed just moments earlier.

Suddenly a strong, firm hand clasped Dennis on the shoulder, startling the young boy out of his reverie. He turned his light brown eyes to look at the one person who could make this day all the worse to bear: Isaac Creevey, Dennis's father. Isaac sat down next to his youngest, and now only, son, before launching into some previously thought-out spiel about Dennis's going to France. One thing, however, was for certain: he thought Dennis should get the heck out of there, and have a better life.

And so Dennis gave a regrettable glance at his elder brother's grave once more, before turning back to the tall and foreboding man that was his father, the milkman. "You really think I should go?" he whispered. The older man nodded, his bright green eyes flashing with pain at the thought of losing not one, but two, of his sons in less than two weeks. But it was better for Dennis, to be away from England. To be away from all of the pain and bad memories. Steeled with a new determination, Dennis smiled genuinely for the first time in at least a week. "Then I'll go."

He turned to Colin's grave as his father departed for the castle, and allowed a single tear to depart from his right eye. "I'll never forget you, Colin," he whispered as he turned to follow his father back up to the castle. "You'll never leave me."

**May 13, 1998**

It was just scarcely two days later, and Dennis was about to depart from the castle for the final time. His trunk was being pulled loudly behind him, and his owl's cage was held in his left hand. His wand was tucked safely in the pocket of his robes, ready if the occasion should arise where he met with any Death Eaters on the way to France. Everything was peaceful. Everything except for one strikingly familiar red-haired man. George Weasley.

Dennis slowly made his way to the lone figure that was sitting by the Whomping Willow, which was still subdued from the battle with Voldemort. He sat down cautiously next to the older boy, careful to alert George to his presence before he spoke. "You know," Dennis began casually, when George gave no sign that he had seen Dennis approach, "he'll always be with you."

George snorted with laughter. "I've been telling myself that all week. But it doesn't change anything. At the end of the day, they're still gone. They're not coming back."

Dennis frowned. "I'm not quite so sure about that, George." He paused. "My dad used to tell Colin and I this old Muggle saying back when we were still kids. Do you know what it was?" George shook his head, and Dennis continued. "Death is only a word." George's lips twitched upwards for what seemed like the first time since Fred had been pronounced dead. "Think on that," Dennis added before he began to trudge out of the castle grounds.

Only the still slightly raspy voice brought him back. "You know you're still a kid, right, Dennis?" George asked him, with a hint of the playful side of him that had been around so frequently when Fred was alive. Dennis smiled.

**August 10, 2005**

Dennis looked down at the blue bundle wrapped up in his arms. He couldn't get over it. His son was perfect. From the mousy brown mop of hair on his head to the perfectly sculpted tiny toes, he was perfect. Gabrielle had done brilliantly. Dennis's wife, Gabrielle Creevey (née Delacour) was lying on the bed next to him, resting after the fitful labor that she had just had. Dennis was tired too, but he couldn't sleep, not while he was trying to figure out the perfect name for his perfect son.

Gabrielle stirred, and Dennis was very upset when she awoke. "You should be resting," he insisted. "The doctors said you needed to rest." She brushed away his doubts, telling him to give her the baby or she was going to throw a fit. So Dennis obliged, having learned all-to-quickly not to mess with a highly hormonal young woman.

"What are we going to name him?" Gabrielle asked in a hushed voice as their son opened his light brown eyes to peer curiously at the both of them before falling asleep once more.

"I don't know," Dennis breathed, as he studied his newborn son closely for the first time. He looked so much like…

"Colin," Gabrielle whispered. "I think that we should name him Colin."

Dennis very nearly choked on his own spit. It was perfect. And then Dennis let the tears flow, and for the first time he began to express how much he wished his brother could have been there to experience this moment, how he wished his brother would have had kids of his own. And throughout all of this, the only thing that Gabrielle could make out was that he wanted the middle name to be Isaac, for his father. She happily agreed.

Colin Isaac Creevey. Once his son was named, Dennis began to pull himself together, piece-by-piece, bit-by-bit. And he began to think back to that conversation held beneath the Whomping Willow, a couple of years previous. For, after all, death is only a word.


End file.
